Oceans of reasons to aspire

visit each daybreak,

with each sundown leaving only cracks in dry earth.

 

Wiser but not older,

only the inheritors truly see

drought where there were chances.

 

Some places still better than others.

But the border towns betray

what will become.

 

Lands of moving masses

and abandoned monuments.

Suffering and selfishness married unhappily.

 

Movers and shakers hastily rearranging,

dropping scarce resources in each other's buckets,

while the foundation crumbles.

 

Most cups go unfulfilled.

Eyes and the best-laid plans ignored.

Blame leveled at broken-winged birds on precipices.

 

Graves and chains everywhere,

bricks and mortar for the ground floors

of the few skyscrapers left.

 

Until the day comes

when the towers are taken

and sanctuaries created out of half-standing buildings.

 

Motorcycles will ride to the seventh floor.

The weary will climb the rest of the way,

materials for new partitions hoisted on backs.

 

Sometimes only a few walls will do,

dressed with forgotten, dire news.

Homes made of mainly beds and familiar souls.

 

Children will play hide and seek

in dusty places where barriers should be,

on edges but carefree.

 

Firemen will occupy the highest floor.

Teachers may share the view

of new horizons resembling hope.

 

Lakes thought to be returning.

Doubts strangled or tossed over

towers risen from dead.

 

Ruins, abominations some will call them,

while the multitudes will see

symbols of what must be.